Strength and Honor (7 page)

said Ski. “Let them burn energy.”

“Keeps them occupied.”

“What if the gorgons catch Toto?” Farragut asked. “We want them to.”

“Eventually.”

“After a while.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, the gorgons will learn that a resonant source isn’t edible. We want them to think that.”

“So in the best case scenario they’ll conclude that chasing something resonant is a waste of energy,” said Ski. “We never get the best case scenario,” said Farragut. He passed the rover of Toto One back to Doctor Sidowski. “Aye, Captain. That brings us to Toto Two,” said Weng. Toto Two wasn’t in the lab. Ski brought up an image of Toto Two. Farragut blinked. “Toto Two’s a long-range shuttle.”

“Toto Two will be orbiting Telecore. If the gorgons achieve escape velocity and leave atmosphere, Toto Two is programmed to commence resonating on a new harmonic,” said Ski.

“A new harmonic in case the swarms guess that the first harmonic was a dry hustle,” Weng noted. “Not like we don’t have enough harmonics to work with.”

“Toto Two is programmed to leave orbit and lead the gorgons off in a direction away from Fort Eisenhower.”

“They’re wild geese,” said Farragut.
Merrimack
had used wild geese many times to draw the Hive off a vulnerable target.

“Except that Toto Two will be moving at a velocity calculated to let the gorgons gain on it in small increments,” said Ski.

“So the gorgons don’t lose interest,” said Weng. “We want to keep them chasing,” said Ski. “That
should—”
Weng began.
“should
—” Ski emphasized.

“—keep the gorgons off course and unfed for at least a year,” Weng concluded. “What do you think?” Ski asked. They both looked expectantly to the captain. “I like it, guys,” said Farragut. “Make it work. And hope the gorgons of Telecore get hungry enough to eat each other before we’re forced to deal with them again.”

4

^A
BITCH NAMED INGA
greeted Captain Farragut at the hatch to the only civilian compartment on the space battleship. The Doberman was former crew. Drummed out of the Navy in disgrace, Inga had become pet to the only man on board permitted to own a pet,
Merrimack’s
civilian adviser
Don
Jose Maria de Cordillera.

Inga sat on Farragut’s command, her stubby tail wagging, shaking her whole stern with it, a big sharp white smile on her clueless face.

The creation of smart dogs was an idea that came and went and came and went over the centuries, and met with disaster every time it came, and always went chased by dogs.

It seemed natural for Man to want his best friend to be better. The idea of a genetically engineered canine with enhanced intelligence held irresistible promise.

The results had been the meanest, most unpredictable, most undoglike breeds ever conceived. Smart dogs had personalities a lot like Augustus’ in fact.

With self-awareness came willful disobedience.

Smart dogs were cunning, self-serving, skulking, sulking, depressive, disloyal, mutinous, thieving curs with delusions of grandeur. A dog that would just as soon bite you in the face as submit to a human being’s dominance.

Having eaten of the fruit of the tree of knowledge, Man’s creations questioned the imperative of unquestioned devotion.

Cadres of dogs trained for fearless service to humankind, loyal unto death, decided to stuff this for a game of soldiers and go their own way. A dog named Bravo, popularly known as Spartacus, led a massacre of his unit’s handlers. That fubar ended the last attempt at improving Dog almost a hundred years ago.

The remaining smart dogs had been castrated by their creator and heaved out of the garden. The Fall of the enhanced Dog was Dog’s failure to bow to the Alpha.

Merrimack’s
contingent of fourteen unenhanced canines was comprised of the three rat terriers—Godzilla, Kong, and Dragon; five miniature shepherds; two golden retrievers in the medical service; Nose and Sweet Lips, the miniature bloodhounds; and Pooh the standard poodle whom the chief considered
his
dog.

Inga the Doberman had been sacked for killing a crewmate. The crew had been seaweed, and may have been dead before Inga started chewing on it, but Inga’s behavior was unacceptable for a member of the U.S. Navy nonetheless.

Inga was not a smart dog. John Farragut gave the now-civilian Inga an ear scratch as he entered the compartment.

At one time holograms of wide open pastures with running horses and deep blue skies had graced the confines of Jose Maria’s cabin. The space was bare now, its true small dimensions clear. In it was only a bed surrounded by stacks of crates. One crate served as a chair, another two as a writing desk. Everything else was in the crates.

Jose Maria was already packed. He knew what a declaration of war meant.

“Young Commodore.” Jose Maria rose from his chair-crate and turned from his desk-crates to greet Farragut with a smile and a continental bow. He was dressed simply in a charcoal gray tunic and black trousers of elegant weave.

“It’s Captain again,” said Farragut. The Attack Group had disintegrated and so had Farragut’s temporarily elevated title.

“Young Captain,” Jose Maria corrected himself.

A Terra Rican aristocrat, Jose Maria de Cordillera looked refined no matter what he did. Even when he’d been wielding a sword and wading ankle-deep in dying gorgons, he was a mesmerizing figure.

He was an older man, greyhound slender, his long black hair held back in a silver clasp. The silvering blaze at his temples had grown wider in the last year. He had truly beautiful hands, his neat nails shaped very short on the left hand; squared off and somewhat longer on the right. Fingernails of a man who played Spanish guitar.

John Farragut glanced over all of Jose Maria’s crates. “Where’s your guitar?”

“He took it,” said Jose Maria, tranquil.

He. Augustus.

Farragut reacted with a start. “Augustus was
here?”

Jose Maria had known that Augustus was jumping ship.

John Farragut spoke, a little betrayed. “You didn’t warn me.”

“I had no idea you were unaware,” said Jose Maria. “As it was, I gave him my blessing.”

Not the way Farragut had been blessing Augustus.

“I’m sure Augustus appreciated that,” said Farragut.

“He swore at me,” Jose Maria said with a philosophical shrug.

Captain Farragut could not delay the sour news that brought him here. “I’m sorry I have to beach you at first port of call, which is fixing to be Fort Eisenhower. Under the Divorce Protocol I can’t carry a neutral anymore.”

Jose Maria showed no offense. “I understand, young Captain.”

Farragut continued, apologetic, “I can’t even take you through the Shotgun. And I know civilian shuttle schedules have got to be hashed, so I can’t even guess how long a layover you’ve got ahead of you before you can get back to Near Space.”

“I know the rules for neutrals in wartime,” said Jose Maria, unconcerned. “I have had my eye on that pretty little new-styled Star Racer. I saw them for sale at Portrillo station in the fortress on our last time through. I could never justify buying such a toy before.” His dark eyes became impish, “This is a sign, do you not think?”

Farragut smiled, picturing Jose Maria with a sassy space yacht. Jose Maria could easily afford it. He was enormously wealthy, a moral man who felt some guilt at the indulgence. But the war did provide an excuse.

Farragut said, “Do I need to ask what you will christen her?”

“No, young Captain, you do not.”

There was soon to be a quick little racing yacht named
Mercedes
dashing among the stars.

Jose Maria’s wife Mercedes had been a xenobotanist. She had gone to the Deep End with Romans several years ago on a secret terraforming project beyond U.S. settled space.

Everything about the planet was perfect for terraforming when the Roman explorers found it—its irradiation, its gravitation, its revolution, its rotation, its tilt, its orbital eccentricity, the pressure and composition of its atmosphere, its soil, its water, its sun. It was perfect. Better than perfect—because, despite its ideal conditions, there was no native life to compete with Roman imports.

Soon there was a balanced, thriving ecosystem on the distant colonial world. The Romans named the planet Telecore. Mercedes Cordillera started homeward on board the Roman ship
Sulla.

Sulla
never arrived.

For a long time no one would speak of
Sulla’s
existence. Voices dropped to a hush at mention of the name. No one would talk to Jose Maria.

With nearly limitless financial resources. Jose Maria set himself on a quest to find his wife. His quest brought him to
Merrimack.

Jose Maria’s home was the unified nation-world of Terra Rica. Terra Rica was neutral in the U.S./Roman conflict. Jose Maria had come on board
Merrimack
as a sword master. The sword was not a recognized weapon of war at the time, so Captain Farragut did not call Jose Maria an arms instructor. A semantic cheat, but it got the Terra Rican neutral on board a United States space battleship without breaking his neutrality.

In their journey to the far reaches of the Deep End of the galaxy
Merrimack
uncovered a terrible secret.

There really were monsters at the edge of the map.

It turned out that the crew and passengers of
Sulla
were the first human victims of the Hive. The planet Telecore was close behind.

Someone might have wondered why a planet perfect for life had none. Rome had only found Telecore devoid of all life because the Hive had already been there once, eaten it clean, and moved on. And came back.

The Hive ate the terraformed world clean one more time.

The Hive was ancient, resilient, a veteran of countless attempts to destroy it. Swarms could outmaneuver, overpower, and turn high-tech weaponry on its owners. Yet despite all the Hive’s collective adaptations and tricks, the individual members could still be cut with a sharp edge. A ship equipped with swords was the first to survive an encounter with the Hive.

Jose Maria had assisted in destroying the original enemy, but failed in his quest to bring his wife home. He knew Mercedes was dead. He would have liked to lay her to rest on Terra Rica.

Sulla
had never been found.

Jose Maria was going home alone.

“I must give you something of mine,” Jose Maria told John Farragut. “There may not be time later. I gave Augustus my guitar.”

Well, Augustus had taken it.

Jose Maria gave John Farragut his Spanish sword.

The elegant sword, its elaborate hilt fashioned like El Cid’s colada, bore nicks and scratches of honorable service. The cord that kept it in hand through many battles was frayed. “Hell of a gift,” said Farragut, profoundly moved. “Thank you.”

He asked Jose Maria if he was going home now to Terra Rica.

“Earth first,” said Jose Maria. “I have an audience with the Pope.”

“What’d that cost you?”

Eyelids lowered, brows went up. “You are channeling Augustus, young Captain,” Jose Maria scolded gently. “That was unkind.”

“That was unforgivably rude,” said Farragut, surprised that the words even came out of him. “Forgivable.” Jose Maria made the sign of the cross over him.
“Te
absolvo.”

Jose Maria’s standing as philanthropist and as a Catholic would make him welcome at the Vatican, seat of the archaic Earth religion which had long since parted ways with the Roman Empire.

“We’ll need to delouse you and all your things before we get to Fort Ike,” said Farragut.

The crew had come to referring to nanites as lice.

Neither the term nor the requirement surprised Jose Maria. He was aware of all the sanitization happening around him. Farragut promised him, “I’ll have the crew repack your crates when they’re done,”

Jose Maria demurred, “Young Captain, I have a set of personal nano-machines I should very much like to preserve.”

“I’ll get you a capsule. We can tow your nanites outboard with the oxygen bricks. You’ll need to park them outside the Fort and pick them up on your way out.”

“That will suffice. Thank you for accommodating me.”

“Are you taking the Shotgun home or are you and
Mercedes
touring the galaxy?”

“I have not decided,” he said, thoughtful.

The Shotgun could displace Jose Maria and
Mercedes
across the two thousand parsecs that separated Fort Dwight David Eisenhower from Fort Theodore Roosevelt in an instant. A ship existed in the Fort Ike terminus of the Shotgun one moment, and then in the Fort Ted terminus the next. Never in between.

From Fort Ted, Earth was only eighty-two light-years away. Terra Rica was not much farther but in a different direction.

A hefty tariff accompanied nonmilitary use of the Shotgun. That would not be an issue for Jose Maria if he decided to use the Shotgun.

The alternative to the Shotgun was a three-month voyage across the Abyss—the lightly starred space between galactic arms. Maybe less than three months if Jose Maria tried to set a record in his new Star Racer.

“Fort Ike and Fort Ted are both military targets,” John Farragut advised Jose Maria. “Unless the Pope is drumming his fingers, I’d take the long way home. The farther you stay from us, the safer you will be.”

“Perhaps then I should pick up a guitar in Fort Eisenhower,” said Jose Maria, contemplating the long journey across empty space. “One way or the other, I shall see you on the other side.” Jose Maria drew Farragut in for a hug and a kiss on both cheeks, and one more on his forehead, as he would one of his sons. “Vaya con Dios, young Captain.”

The ship was nearly cleansed and most of the new communications links established, when the com tech reported, “Captain, I’ve got a hail on our old res harmonic.”

Specialists on the command deck tensed at their stations. This far into the protocol, no one should be using the old harmonics. Anyone using an old harmonic had to be hostile, no matter what kind of excuse they tried to give. Captain Farragut moved over to the com station. “Who is it claiming to be?”